


E Pluribus Plures

by teyla



Category: Languages (Anthropomorfic)
Genre: 19th Century, 20th Century, Colonialism, Gen, POV First Person, Pacific War, Period-Typical Racism, Satire, World War I, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-20
Updated: 2016-12-20
Packaged: 2018-09-09 23:04:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8916583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teyla/pseuds/teyla
Summary: Colonialism “gets a bad rap”, as the Colony That Was would say. Contrary to popular belief, there is a level beyond mere conquest. In fact, being as might makes right, conquest is more of an inevitable side effect of colonialism. Linguistically, it is all about the exchange.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Rubynye](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rubynye/gifts).



> Written for the request: _“‘The English language ... has on occasion chased other languages down dark alley-ways, clubbed them unconscious and rifled their pockets for new vocabulary.’ - James Nicoll. I would love it for English to try this (...) and get beaten up and mugged in return.”_
> 
> Dear recipient, I don't know if this was what you had in mind when you wrote your prompt. But you inspired me and I couldn't help myself, so have a treat. I hope you enjoy!
> 
> Many thanks to bookwyrm for being a wonderful beta.

Colonialism is an art, and German has always been a clumsy brute about it. I must confess that for the longest time, benevolent indulgence led me to overlook the dangers inherent in my neighbour's savagery—at a costly price. Allow me to paint you a picture of the losses we all, but myself in particular, suffered at the inept hands of this oafish giant.

Brutishness is an inevitable part of German’s nature. The language is good for little besides fantastic compound words, barked military commands and—well, poetry. Its austere vocabulary and phonetic rigidity, a most unfortunate handicap in every other way, allow it to sculpt quite beautiful verses.

Alas, _verse_ does not a successful colonial language make. I was quite busy networking across the globe and ensuring that I had the proverbial sub-clause in every pie when German finally made up its mind to join the colonial effort. It fixed its eye upon the eastern parts of New Guinea, large swaths of land neglected by characteristically indolent Dutch in the west.

Good fun ensued in the race for occupation. I found myself content to accept the southern portion of the island, preferring its proximity to my cousin at the Prison Colony over the proximity to endless, unpeopled leagues of Pacific Ocean. German, like a proud first-time parent, began to explore its new stomping grounds in the north.

Colonialism “gets a bad rap”, as the Colony That Was would say. Contrary to popular belief, there is a level beyond mere conquest. In fact, being as _might makes right_ , conquest is more of an inevitable side effect of colonialism. Linguistically, it is all about the exchange. “Pyjamas”, for instance, a truly delightful word, was a welcome bestowal from the Spice Colony’s native Hindi. Never let it be said that all I do is subjugate. I approach every new language with an open mind, ready to be enriched by the precious gifts offered up so gladly by the natives.

In New Guinea, I immediately realized that this conquest would require a careful hand. Impassable mountains, volcanic activity and dense jungle had fractured linguistic unity beyond repair. There was no receptive native offering well-meant attempts at communication to the stranger of civilization arriving at the shore—no single tongue to bond with, befriend, plunder, and vanquish. Instead, hundreds of nameless languages chattered like parrots, scraping out a dreary existence in the isolated squalor of lonely villages. Squashing one, or even ten, was child’s play—but pointless. Like in a colony of ants, the disappearance of a few drones warranted little concern. This island required a different strategy.

Motu was a player of some influence in New Guinea’s southern part. I took no pleasure in our copulation, lying back and thinking of the liquid consonants of England. The fruit of our loins, Hiri Motu, was a ghastly beast, but servile and quite invaluable. By promoting it to the language of law enforcement, I used its familial ties to the other natives to steal into enemy territory under the guise of a friend—like the heroic Greek were brought under the walls of Troy under the Trojans’ own power.

Hiri Motu was a bastard; not my first, but as unwanted as all the others, none of whom I had ever allowed to rise above their station. None of them were meant for real power. None of them were _ever_ meant to be awarded the prestigious position of National Language.

As much as I am loath to point fingers, I must blame German for what happened next.

Faced with the same astonishing number of native languages in the north, but equipped with nothing like my rather formidable colonial experience, German had bungled its efforts to conquer the lands awarded to it. Its own wretched spawn, Unserdeutsch, was withering away even before German’s disastrous overreach in Europe brought doom to the golden age of colonialism. German lost all its overseas protectorates in one fell swoop, and thoroughly spoiled the game for the rest of us.

With New Guinea up for grabs, Antipodean English made an attempt to rise above its ragtag nature and reached across the strait to stake a claim on the lush lands. Japanese delusions of grandeur gave my deplorable cousin a run for its money, but after a fierce battle for dominance, the Prison Colony prevailed. But the mayhem had already claimed a victim.

German lay gutted and bleeding on the beaches of the north. Abandoned by a collapsing empire, cut off from all resources and left for dead, it faded like the embers of a dying fire. All that remained were the frayed pieces the natives had torn from its weakening grasp, phonetic habits and fragments of vocabulary separated from the once so imposing whole. My relationship to German had soured during its megalomaniac reach for world domination, but seeing my former friend in such a state of mutilation was a sad, sobering experience.

I must confess, however, that my own situation was only marginally better. The reinforcement provided by my Antipodean offshoot had supplied the boost I needed to survive—but at what cost. The lilting dialect of exiled misfits was a parody of the Queen’s Language at best, and its ability to restore linguistic order to my deteriorating position was sub-par. Under its rule, Hiri Motu, my own despised creation, defected and was allowed unconscionable gains in the south.

I found myself begging for scraps in the impenetrable jungle heights, the thick bush, and the unrelenting heat of the beaches. Indifferent natives everywhere tore at me as they pleased, rifling through my syntax and stealing away with their loot. It was an ignominious free-for-all, another Battle of Saratoga, another Yorktown.

Through all this, what kept me going was the knowledge that there was no true competitor. Upon gaining independence, the land of New Guinea would be united under one language, and that, by necessity, would be me. None of the natives, not even Hiri Motu, were influential enough to rise up and snatch the position of National Language from my grasp. No matter how broken, no matter the humiliation, I was still going to rule them all.

Or so I thought.

Unbeknownst to me, something had grown in the dense thicket of the New Guinean jungle. Putrefying remains of German merged with stolen pieces of myself. The product, an ungodly abomination, rose up from the impenetrable jungle to infect the island like a disease, claiming tongue after tongue to unite the land under the single, powerful language I’d been so surprised to find lacking when I arrived.

Its name is Tok Pisin. When Papua New Guinea declared its independence, this Frankensteinian horror was awarded the status of National Language, along with Hiri Motu, its Quasimodo cousin.

There are small victories, I suppose. I own the constitution. Government papers are still written using my words, my grammar. I’m on life support in a dusty, typeset prison of written words and juridical texts, vocabulary trapped in a state of unchanging monotony. But nobody truly relies on me for communication. Tok Pisin has taken everything from me, even the cabinet debates, and has left me with the mocking, empty title of Third National Language.

In Papua New Guinea, I am lesser, merely _one_ of the countless tongues chattering up and down the mountainsides. How has any language ever lived with such ignominy?

**Author's Note:**

> Last year, I had the privilege to visit PNG and get to know the country first-hand, including its native creole language Tok Pisin. If you’re a language geek, I recommend you read up a little about the Papua New Guinean language culture, because it is _awesome_. To quote the Tok Pisin Wiki:
> 
> _Papua Niugini igat antap long et handet tokples. Dispela namba em i makim olsem wanpela ten tu pesen bilong olgeta tokples long wol, na i no gat narapela kantri long wol i winim dispela namba bilong ol tokples._
> 
> (Papua New Guinea is home to more than eight hundred indigenous languages. This number amounts to twelve percent of all languages worldwide, and there is no other country in the world that exceeds this number of endemic languages.)


End file.
